He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely because of this love he feels for her. She says she’s lonely too. She doesn’t say why.

Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.

Words don't change their shape, they change their meaning, their function...They don't have a meaning of their own any more, they refer to other words that you don't know, that you've never read or heard...you've never seen their shape, but you feel...you suspect...they correspond to...an empty space inside you...or in the universe.

In heterosexual love there's no solution. Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it's the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.

Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.